Larry David Can Pee On Me Any Day

On a recent episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, a portrait of moi suffered splash-back from Larry David's urine, resulting in a joke about miraculous tears. Apparently, a bunch of Catholics are really up in arms about it.

Now I know Dad tends toward knee-jerk reactions about such things. You know, like the time he had bears eat a bunch of kids who poked fun at the Prophet Elisha's baldness.

But I'm much more laid back and, really, what's a little pee on my face in the grand scheme of things. Besides, I'm used to it. Whether it's a rendering of me submerged in an artist's own urine or just the guy next to me not wanting to lose his spot at a Phish concert, I've taken my share of golden showers.

I really think the Catholics have their undies in a twist over nothing here. A little splash-back, that's it. You do realize, Catholics, that your birth control-free wives have peed on about a three dozen pregnancy tests over the years, don't you? Those are the same hands that cook your dinner.

And Larry David created Seinfeld, a show about nothing. He made something out of nothing. Sound like someone familiar? He can pee on just about anybody he wants.

At least it's not that bastard Calvin. No discretion, that guy, pees on anything that moves.

What To Get A Devil Who Has Everything

I still don't know what to get the Devil for Halloween.

I've been racking my brain for weeks now, but I'm stumped. He's already got all the really bad stuff: alcohol, drugs, pre-marital sex, the liberal media, war, pestilence, mule-coveting.

Now, I know what you're thinking, but the truth is that the Devil and I operate within an atmosphere of mutual respect. He's the Heath Ledger to my Christian Bale, I guess you could say. And for my birthday in Bethlehem he and King Herod teamed up to make a pretty big deal about it and ended up getting me, Mom, and Joe a trip to Egypt. He's always doing little things like that.

Most the religious holidays are centered around me, and ever since he and Dad had that falling out, I've felt kind of bad for the guy. Halloween's really the Devil's only time to shine. It's a big day for him, I know that, and it takes the perfectly dreadful present to keep him placated, or he's bound to unleash the anti-Christ.

He's already stopped playing with that swine flu pandemic I got him last year, so I've got to come up with something truly heinous this time around.

Right now I've got it narrowed down to the destruction of the world at the end of the Mayan calendar in 2012 or a pre-order of Entourage: The Complete Sixth Season on DVD.

Decisions, decisions.

The Holy Ghost Haunts Like A Girl

So I saw that Paranormal Activity movie recently and it gave me an idea to cash-in big (and supplement my flagging collection-plate income):

Step 1: Set up video camera in my bedroom.

Step 2: Tell Mary Magdalene I want to talk about "us" and trick her into sleeping over for a few nights.

Step 3: Pay the Holy Ghost some piddly sum to slam some doors, flick the lights, and maybe possess Mags for awhile.

Step 4: Net $60 million.

Well, turns out the camera deal exposed two sobering realities: 1) I don't look as good doing the nasty as I thought, and 2) The Holy Ghost couldn't haunt his way out of a paper bag.

I mean, seriously, his idea of possession is making Mags blurt a few nonsense words and wiggle on the ground for awhile, then come away feeling renewed by a divine force. No unexplained wind or non-human footprints or burning Ouija Boards. Even his ominous whispering was hackneyed and don't get me started on his limp-wristed chandelier-swaying.

He cast a shadow in the shape of a dove, for crying out loud!

So my Supernatural Activity idea will never see the light of day. I guess I'll have to resume work on my animated project, Shroudy with a Chance of Preach Balls.

Seriously, Swayze, A Little Personal Space?

Look, Swayze, I just want to make a clay pot. OK?

I know you're new to Heaven and all, so we're kind of in a saved-by-grace period. You dirty-danced with a lot of different religions over the years, and I'll admit - after your flings with those sluts, Scientology and Buddhism - I'm happy to be the one you call Baby.

I get it, you really do love me with all your heart and soul.

Ditto.

But for fuck sake, give me two seconds alone, will ya?

There's a lot more to do in heaven than worship the ground I walk on, Swayze. I mean, the streets are paved with gold, you can fly, and you can drink as much of my blood as you want without getting hung over. But all you seem to want to do is ruin my every attempt at pottery. So back the fuck off.

Nobody puts Baby Jesus in a corner!

Good & Evil, Heaven & Hell, Sandals & Socks

A disturbing trend has been popping up the past few decades and I'm here to put the kibosh on it right now. In my day, I wouldn't be caught temporarily dead in such a hideous combo.

Socks and sandals are like oil and water, angels and demons, two consenting adults of the same sex and the legal contract of marriage. They simply don't mix.

It's not that difficult, people. You can wear socks OR you can wear sandals. Never the twain shall meet.

Doing so is an abomination, and if I see this fashion sin again I'm casting the first stone.

What, So Dad's Weather Isn't Good Enough For You Anymore, Is That It?

After millenia of you people bracing yourselves for Dad's earthquakes, chasing His tornadoes, and getting a little somethin'-somethin' during His sunsets, it's come to this.

The Weather Channel is going to start showing movies.

Now, I'll be the first to admit, Dad's weather-making may have lost a step. Back in the olden days, when His act was cutting edge, there was no telling what He'd cook up any given second .

Pillars of fire, plagues of blood or locusts, and tons of creepy fog with angels in it. When Joshua needed a few extra hours to kill more Canaanites, Dad made the flipping Sun stand still. This is the guy who invented swallowed-by-Earth; before Him, that wasn't even a thing people had to worry about.

He didn't fuck around.

But yes, He's slipping in his old age. Hell, He once exterminated all but eight of you people by making it rain for 40 days and 40 nights without breaking a sweat. Nowadays, He's lucky if his hurricanes and tsunamis take out a couple hundred-thou.

I guess this begs the age old question: is it better to burn out or fade away. Well, I can tell you one thing that's worse than both... getting bumped by George Clooney and Mark Wahlberg.

Fasting Is Not An Eating Disorder

So Ralph Lauren pulled a horrible photoshop job and fired some model with a ridiculous name and everybody's up in arms about it. Personally, I don't get it. Just because a standard of beauty is physically impossible to achieve doesn't mean women should stop trying.

Last time I checked, Dad created woman out of Adam's rib, not his love handle.

Rail thin fashion models have been criticized for years, but you can never be too skinny, that's like being too religious, too conservative, or too into guns. Simply not possible.

Take me. I once fasted and power-walked the desert for 40 days to drop a few pounds before the big crucifixion. Are you going to tell me I have a problem, an eating disorder? Look at the results. Images of me on the cross with my ribs and hip bones jutting out are practically worshipped. Do you really think a third of the world's population today would praise me like a god if I was sporting a Buddha belly up there? Hell no.

A wafer and a squirt of grape juice once a week is all you need to survive anyway. So quit trashing 87-lb. models whose bones are mostly dust. These wispy women aren't anorexic, they're just fasting.

Next time you feel the need to rag on the fashion world's standard of beauty, just remember, halos only come in size 0.

You Used To Be Cool, Switzerland

What happened to you, Switzerland?

You used to be the world's bastion of neutrality. Never wanted to step in other people's shit. Tycoons who I blessed with billions of dollars could stash some away in your banks without fear of having to "give to Caesar what is Caesar's." Besides being a first-rate avenue to tax evasion, Swiss Bank Accounts were also super sneaky and badass. Now you're allowing The Man to poke holes in your banks like its your namesake cheese? That's shady, Switzerland.

And setting up Roman Polanski? What the hell was that about? Real neutral. You told him if he flew to Zurich he'd receive a lifetime achievement award, but didn't bother to mention that the lifetime achievement was child rape and the award was jail. You didn't feel up to fighting Nazis in WWII but you take down the guy who directed The Pianist?

That's an asshole move right there.

Impeccable taste in flag emblems aside, you need to straighten up and fly right, Switzerland, or I'll burn my copy of Heidi. All you've got going for you right now is Roger Federer, and he's even getting fined for using my name in vain at a line judge.

Not too good, Switzerland. The hills are alive with the sound of me kicking your ass.

Get Your Own Act, Balloon Boy

Kids untether the darndest things.

By now the whole world has heard about Balloon Boy, the precocious rascal who released his parents weird silvery weather balloon dealy and prompted an extensive air and ground search by Colorado authorities when it was believed he was inside.

Despite wars and rumors of wars, the entire world was spellbound as they followed along minute-by-minute on an aerial odyssey that basically amounted to watching a Jiffy Pop-shaped balloon float in the air for awhile, because you know what... the little fucker was hiding in the attic the whole time!

I, of course, already knew this (omniscience comes in handy, if you have the means I highly suggest you try it). At first I was laughing my ass off at how stupid you humans can be, transfixed by cute things allegedly floating inside poofy, shiny things, but then I started getting a little riled up. I mean, I pulled the whole "missing kid" bit back when I was 12 and my family was traveling home from Jerusalem via caravan after the census. Mom and Joe didn't even know I was gone for three whole days and then they frantically return to find me schooling the scribes in the Temple. Booyah. A lot cooler than untying a cord and hiding in some stupid box like a pussy.

And this kid was thought to be ascending into the heavens. Real original, Balloon Boy. I wouldn't be surprised if Three Kings traveled afar bearing you gifts as an infant either.

I Got Your Public Option Right Here

I've already made myself heard on health care reform, but with a major committee vote expected today, I thought it was time to take a bigger stand against evil Caesar advancing the government's health care agenda.

The best public option: Me.

Back in my New Testament heyday, I was known far and wide for my cure-alls. Take a look at the following list of services that will be included under my HMO (Holy Medical Options):

- Seizures? A little demon-rebuking can work wonders.

- Blindness? Some mud and a glob of my spit should do the trick.

- Legs don't work? "Rise and walk" it off.

-Leprosy? These magic fingers will clear that shit right up.

-Mental illness? No need to live in tombs anymore, just listen to the sound of my voice for a while and those unclean spirits are outta here.

- Paralyzed servant? Take to two knees and call me in the morning.

- Severed Ear? I'll just put that back where Peter found it.

-Perpetual 12-year bleeding? Just touch the hem of my garment. It's that easy!

The price tag is so low that most Republicans are already paying it: just 90 minutes of your time every Sunday morning and 10% of your income.

And the best part is, the quality of my medical care can't be beat. People practically cut holes in roofs to get to me.

Christopher Columbus Is Full Of Shit

No mail today. You know why? Because in fourteen-hundred ninety-two, some douchebag sailed the ocean blue.

Christopher Columbus is a bigger thorn in my side than that gaping spear wound. The guy is stupid enough to think he can sail to the West Indies by crossing the Atlantic, then dies years later convinced he'd been to Asia, yet he still parades around Heaven taking credit for "discovering" a continent my Dad created, one that's already occupied by millions of people.

The nerve.

Now every second Monday in October I have to hear this world class turd go on and on about what a great explorer he was and - just because he crashed his boat into an unfamiliar continent over 500 years ago - my Guns and Ammo Magazine is going to be late.

I got some advice for you, Chris, discover yourself some tact, you boastful motherfucker.

Quit Airing My Dirty Laundry, People!

Once again the Shroud of Turin - the linen cloth in which I was buried - has popped up in the news. Recently, some jackass scientists claimed that it must be a fake because they were able to replicate it.

If only I was so lucky.

No, I'll come clean and admit that when I defeated death like a fucking champ, I was a total slob and left my soiled burial shroud just laying there in a heap. Back in Nazareth, Mom's boyfriend Joe was always getting on my case for leaving my undies all over the place. He said one day it'd come back to haunt me, and I guess he was right. The Shroud of Turin has been pored over by you sick fucks for centuries. You people seriously just need to let it go. You're so cuckoo for Christ-y prints you're seeing me in your curtains now.

I just don't understand the fascination with a piece of putrid cloth I was decomposing in. And bravo on being able to reproduce my soiled laundry, the scientific equivalent of dropping a deuce in your tighty-whiteys.

Genius stuff. Really.

Another Nobel Peace Prize Snub For This Guy

So Barack Obama has won a Nobel Peace Prize as leader of a nation currently fighting two wars. Way to turn the other cheek, Barry. You totally deserve that Nobel Peace Prize and I'm not in any way being sarcastic. Seriously. I totally mean it.

Who am I to expect maybe at least one nomination for the Nobel Peace Prize in the last 100 years? I'm just the Prince of Peace after all. You know, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hurt you. Ring any bells?

Sure, there's been everything from the Crusades to abortion clinic bombings done in my name, but that's not me, people. That's not my bag. I'm all about peace, love, mercy, and the occasional righteous anger (but as long as you aren't selling chickens in the temple you're probably cool).

And how can someone like Obama, a liberal socialist Nazi taxhiking babykiller, win an award for peace. That's like Glenn Beck finishing first in a critical think-off, or Pat Robertson snagging Master of Ceremonies at the Gay Pride Parade.

Sometimes you humans make no sense to me, and I swear, if I don't win a Peace Prize soon, I'll make Dad kill you all again in a Great Flood.

It's Time For Zombie Discrimination To End

With the box office success of Zombieland and proliferation of the living dead in literature such as Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and Zombie Haiku, you'd think people would view my resurrected brethren more favorably. Sadly, quite the opposite is true, as reanimated corpses are categorically depicted as brainless cannibals hellbent on macabre mayhem.

This is a stereotype, people, a rotten stereotype and this kind of blatant discrimination needs to end. The word zombie itself is a life-ist slur; Reanimated-American is the preferred nomenclature. The Z-Word is used routinely by the media to dehumanize the resurrected dead, while also finding a place in our lexicon as a synonym for mindless drone. Just because Christianity demands blind obedience and discourages free thought doesn't give you the right to name call.

Maybe take a second to think how your Lord and Savior, who also happens to be a reanimated corpse and who has reanimated others (I'm looking at you, Lazarus and Jairus' daughter), might feel about having my kind depicted so barbarically.

And it's a myth that the resurrection of the dead propagates from a rampant virus or radiation or other horrible pestilence. Ever stop to think maybe the dead rose by childlike faith? Just a thought, jerk-offs.

And need I remind you that at the end of days, you will all rise as zombies. No amount of shotguns, chainsaws, or boarded-up windows can save you from your fate, so you better start cleaning up your act now and treat us with a little respect. That means you, Woody Harrelson.

I Wish There Was Some Way I Could Accept Brett Favre Into MY Heart

If I could, I would, people.

That's how great Brett Favre's performance last night against the Packers was. I mean, the guy turns 40 on Saturday yet he's out there throwing laser beams.

To put this in context, a third of the world literally worships me and I didn't even live to see 34, much less throw for 271 yards and three touchdowns a few days shy of 40. If anything, Favre and his rocket arm deserve more praise than even I am worthy of.

The best thing about Brett Favre is how much he loves the game. He's like a big kid out there, and you all know how I feel about children. The guy just loves to play football. Just like I love getting crucified for the salvation of mankind. It's in our blood.

Watching Favre come out of retirement again and again really inspires me to make my much rumored second coming, or at least to strap on the old crown of thorns and triumph over the devil yet again, even if I have to get my tail whipped by some Romans in the process.

So get off your knees all you Christians out there. I'm no longer going to refer to myself as the Savior of mankind. Based on last night's performance, I'm handing over that title to the gunslinger from Kiln, Mississippi.

I shall henceforth be the first prophet of Favrianity.

Suck It, Chicago! Rio's Got Way Better Taste In Statues Anyway

No Olympics for you, Chicago!

Eat it.

Rio de Janeiro handed your ass to you on a platter, Chi-town. Not even Oprah could save you. Maybe now you'll reconsider who you choose to immortalize through massive stone sculptures. You know, maybe like... Immortals?

It's not like you've got a shortage of statues in your city, Chicago. There's that Michael Jordan statue, where he's jumping over some sort of molten rock creature with two heads and a mummy arm. I guess that's kind of impressive, but I cast a legion of demons from some possessed asshole into a herd of pigs who drowned themselves. Where's my statue of that, Windy City? MJ just brought you a measly six rings, but I bring you everlasting life purchased with my blood, you ingrateful motherfuckers.

Then there's the Harry Caray sculpture, from which it's apparently acceptable to hang skinned goats . Dad may have been impressed by slaughtered livestock sacrifices back in the Old Testament days, but you're dealing with me now and I think that shit's gross. Although, I do give Cubs' fans some credit, since rooting for that franchise requires a hell of a lot more faith then I'd ever demand of you mortals.

Chicago, you have plenty more stupid graven images that aren't me, such as the lame Indian playing air-archery, the guy on the horse over a lion, and whatever the hell this is.

No me's.

The only thing that rivals Rio's Me Statue, is that dealy on top of the Board of Trade. It looked pretty cool in The Dark Knight, I'll give you that. But it's on top of a building and lit by spotlights. My Rio Statue's on top of a mountain and you know what it gets lit up by? Fucking lightning!

Better luck with 2020, Chicago. Until then, have fun playing with your bean.

Roman Polanski Didn't 'Covet-Covet'

Ever since Oscar-winning director and fugitive of justice Roman Polanski was arrested by Swiss authorities in Zurich on three-decades old charges of unlawful sex with a minor, Hollywood has been abuzz calling for Polanski's release. Whoopi Goldberg has been getting crucified for saying he didn't actually commit "rape-rape." Hollywood's elite have taken a lot of flak for their support of Polanski, so I thought it was about time for the Universe's elite (aka me) to jump into the fray.

Of course, rapists didn't make it onto the Ten Commandments' shit list (Dad was more concerned with graven-image-makers, parent-dishonorers, and Sabbath-forgetters). Adulterers and wife-coveters are the closest it gets, and close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. So, I'll pull a "Whoopi" and say Polanski didn't exactly "covet-covet", unless the 13-year-old girl was somebody else's wife or a mule or something.

And let's face it, as long as you've accomplished something significant in your life, you can get away with a little rape now and then; like when you've just smote your enemies and it turns out their wives are hot. Polanski directed Chinatown, people! I say, at most, he pay his victim's father 50 pieces of silver, then marry her and call it a day.

Besides, we live in a different era now. Polanski's victim doesn't want him prosecuted, so why should I? And in today's society, with news anchors encouraging perpetual poultry fornication and reality dance shows showcasing bare vajayjays, it's a whole new ballgame.

I say just do whatever feels good and let Dad sort it out.